What's for you....

Hello!!! God it all got a bit dark there for a bit didn't it? It's Friday avo - I can't have darkness on a gorgeous sunny day like today.I've had a lovely day. I met with my friend Maggie - who is radiant, with shiny thick glossy hair, being in the glorious blooms of pregnancy - we went to a cute playpark in posh Hampstead. I think you need a bugaboo to get in - the terrain is rough with a sand pit in the middle - pure off road wheels needed. Sproglet frolicked around, went down the slide backwards on his tummy, ran away from a wee girl who threw sand in his eyes (her Mother was on the phone the whole time and didn't look up once - I was ready to bop her on the head with said phone and tell her to rein in her wild child - I went into full Mama bear mode)and tried to converse with a huge bear shaped bin.

We ate pasta at Carluccios, sproglet covered himself in butter and blue pencil and then he slept peacefully as we wandered down the hill back towards my flat. Girl chat, sunshine on my face, a frappacino and fun with sproglet - I just need some cake and happiness is complete. I received an email today from an old schoolmate - Justine. I haven't seen her since we left school back in... oh too long ago to mention - but she reads this blog and she offered me some great words of wisdom. Basically to dry my eyes and enjoy what I have. 'Tis true. I got a bit wallowy there for a moment. I need to concentrate on what I have rather that what I don't have. I remember once at a party I had - I spent more time wondering where the folk that hadn't turned up were, rather than worry about those that had actually made an appearance. I'm forever getting to one goalpost and then moving it fifty yards away - saying 'I'll be happy if I get there...' then getting there and... you get the picture. Do you ever do this? Come on, make me feel like I'm not alone in this sin! So, the job thing - I'll worry about it next week - and actually instead of worrying (a wasted activity if ever there was one - like snooker) I will just try and do my best and see what comes up. What's for you won't go past you.

On that cheery note - have a good weekend. I'm off to get cake. x

Giving up

I want to give up. Honest I do. I've had a crappy couple of weeks and things aren't getting any better. Husband tries his best but does crazy hours and basically I am left holding sproglet. The job situation isn't improving and I feel so fresh out of ideas and inspiration that I feel like I am a walking zombie. A walking zombie who's tear ducts are doing overtime. Three weeps today - one in the street. Snotty nose, tears tripping me, hard to breathe - to the point an old man stopped walking, turned round and clocked me, a concerned look spread over his craggly face. Once one tear falls it is hard to stop.

I know I shouldn't compare my life to others - it does me no good - but why the hell is it so fucking hard for me to get work? I mean, was there a media party that everyone was invited to bar me? A bloody BBC one? Does someone out there practice black magic to a fine art and has a little shrine of hate to me? What is going on??? I have spent over a year trying to break into tv drama - and I have no fight left. No fire in my belly. The tank is empty. I just want to curl up under the duvet and not get up until someone has a job ticket with my name on it. We should move in 5 weeks - and how will I pay my share of the mortgage? The stress of this consumes me daily. I feel sick when I think about it. Then today - just when I couldn't get lower - my Dad calls. The show I gave my heart and soul to - the one I flew back to Belfast for every weekend with 4 month old sproglet - is back. With a new presenter. Not that anyone told me. It is the ultimate humiliation. Fair enough the TV company is making redundancies - and has recruited said presenter from within - and it is a differnt style of show - less young, more political... But I can't help feel it is a slap in the face. Oh yeah - kick me when I am down. Get your big boots on - with the steel toe caps - great. Now aim!

Am I turning into one of those half empty people? I dunno. I just feel flat. Christ if I wasn't on the anti-depressants I would be calling the Samaritans rather than volunteering for them. I know - I am meant to give out positive vibes and then they all coming raging back to me boomerang stylee and lo and behold - life is a bowl of cherries. I just wish I could get a break. I keep thinking why me? Then beating myself up for being such a self-pitying self-obsessed arse. I just wish I knew a way out of this all. A way to have - dare I say it - some stability in life. I'm a good person - I pay taxes, volunteer, floss, pick up litter, recycle etc etc. All I want is to work and earn a crust at something I enjoy and challenges me. Is that too much to ask?

Ok - enough of my pity party. I just feel shattered. Lost. Disappointed and disenchanted. I just want things to change and I have tried and tried and don't know what to do any more. Mr Big at the beeb has yet to get back to me. I feel like the girl who had the date from heaven and yet - he never called.

But I did go and see 'Horton hears a who'at the cinema today. Sproglet loved it. The moral is - a person is still a person, no matter how small. Which is good because I feel very small indeed.

Pity party - you're all invited!

Well... I intended to have a pity party tonight. Just you, me and a fine red 'Georges Duboeuf Fleurie' 2006. I wanted to whitter on about how my job hell had sunk lower than Captain Nemo ever dared to venture - that the only thing beneath me now is Satan himself. Then I popped onto a blog I liked (The Girl Who... - check Monica out) and from there was sent to this link:
http://captainhambone.typepad.com/not_that_you_asked/2008/03/these-are-our-g.html

Well, reading about a 16 month old child with cancer is enough to sober anyone. I grabbed for my wallet and donated to this poor family who really know the pit of despair. They discovered their child was ill - on vacation... miles from home. There they are ensconced. Struggling through the days, praying that their darling daughter will survive numerous operations and chemo etc. It wasn't an easy read. It dampened my enthusiasm for my little well of self pity that I was going to dip into. So I will explain but not dwell. Dwelling is for ejits... or those that don't know how lucky they are.

So why was my stupid day so bad? Well I emailed a lovely girl who used to send me out scripts from the BBC. I wondered what had happened to the job I have waited for over a year to come up - the assistant script editor at Eastenders. (Brit soap for all my amazing foreign readers). I had done some digging and discovered the girl who did it was promoted and her replacement was a guy on placement - who is leaving this week. Voila! The opportunity was mine for the taking! I had been in to meet the folk there twice - they knew me, I was ready - just in time for the house move and HUGE new mortgage etc.... and.... today lovely Kathleen emailed me - the job went internally.

ARGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Yes - MY job - for it had my name on it I assure you - had been advertised and the interviews already had taken place. Big bulbous tears hit the keyboard. I just didn't know where to turn to. I have spent a year trying to get into script editing. I met great bigwigs in the industry. The big wigs said "Work on a soap!" So soapwards I went. There are 7 in the UK. 3 in London. One great soap offered me a job but I had to say no - due to it being in Leeds and sprog and husband (mortgage etc) all being in London. So..... I concentrated on the 3 soaps in London. One fancies itself as a 'serial drama' so is out of my league. That leaves 2. I can't get in to one - so that leaves EE - which I love. I met with folk there and they said - the assistant script ed would be PERFECT for you! Then they gave it... blah blah - you know the rest. I was gutted. I am gutted. I have no idea where to look for work - an opening or even inspiration. Why do I always choose the hardest mountains to climb? Why couldn't I want to be something straightforward - a hairdresser or solicitor or something... And I thought getting in to presenting was hard!

Do you ever have days like today - when you wonder what the hell is against you? Does an ex-boyfriend have a freakin' voodoo doll that he is sticking more pins in than a seamstress's cushion? Anyway - I washed sproglet, fed him pasta and popped him down to sleep. He went out like a light, snuggling his new fav toy - and duck called... er, 'Duckie'. And I realised that I am blessed - with friends, family, a husband who buys me 'Taste the difference cream custard' to drown my sorrows with. And a sproglet with fuzzy hair and the best laugh in the world. Feck 'em and their job. To quote that brilliant Aries woman Scarlett - 'tomorrow is another day.'

Cheers!

Escape

Do you ever dream of escape? A world away from the mundane grey existence that the daily grind has been reduced to? I remember when I had just had sproglet. I desperately wanted some respite. I knew post section that a tube journey was out of the question and it never occurred to me to get a cab - so I reckoned the furthest I could get away had to be on foot. Not for me the fantasies of Hawaii and an oiled Brad Pitt lookey-likey rubbing my rolls of flesh or a spa retreat to pamper me into oblivion - no, all I craved was a night at the Swiss Cottage Holiday Inn. The thought of the air conditioned rooms, clean sheets and the ability to sleeeeeeeeeeeep a whole night through was my idea of ultimate escape. Bless me.

We get those moments (my most recent one was post Easter) when we need to down tools and get the hell outta there. I am blessed. I have a retreat to run to. My Auntie M's. She is amazing - a product from another innocent era, where men worked and women tended the home: where cakes are made daily and scones are whipped up in the blink of an eye. I arrive to hot baths, roast dinners and shortbread. She gets up with sproglet and lets me lie in until 10am!!! My clothes are washed and pressed and left back in my room as if the laundry genie (that husband believes in) actually exists. She slips fivers in my pocket and runs me to the cinema, babysitting sproglet. She asks me what I want for dinner and always has hummus in the fridge. And home made jam. She is the Uber Mother. I feel secure and calm and my stress just melts away. She lives in York - a quaint beautiful city (until the bloody tourists take over). I wander around the town, pausing to watch street entertainers (they were my big crush when I was an over-romantic 15 year old, I thought them glamorous a bit dirty and inviting - like circus folk)shoving home-made ice cream in my mouth and popping in and out of clothes shops - finally having the time to try on an item or two. She lives next to a small lake and it is utterly surprising how good feeding pesky ducks can make you feel(even though sproglet chased a goose today and I fell on my arse in the mud trying to stop the bird from taking out his eyes). All too soon the day rolls round when I have to leave - say goodbye to the over-flowing cake tin, the meals that appear from nowhere and the pretty green garden that catches the sun in the mornings.

I get on the train for the big smoke and bite my lip. It is never easy to leave. When I used to visit every summer as a child, my Aunt then lived in another area - teaming with kids - they used to form an arrivals committee on the bench at the end of her road, cheering as I climbed out of the car, delirious to be there. I would play out from sunrise to sunset: bombing around on a borrowed bike, climbing trees and building playhouses, eating hot salty chips with scraps (a Yorkshire thing - little flecks of batter that have fallen from the fish - heavenly) and sucking frozen ice pops until our foreheads hurt and our lips were stained blue. I wore a T-shirt with an ironed-on tigers head and skin tight jeans and had a crush on the boy across the road who had a big nose and brother who did wheelies on his motorbike. Summers felt like they went on forever to a soundtrack of 'Fame' 'Eye of the Tiger' and 'Frankie' by Sister Sledge. Every time my case was packed and the goodbyes were said I would sob the whole way to the airport and the whole flight home to Ireland. I remember a woman once taking me under her wing convinced I had a fear of flying - I just hated to leave my haven.

26 years on and it is still my escape destination. I leave again tomorrow. There may be no-one to wave me off bar my Aunt and Uncle, I'm not leaving behind a cherished bike and a secret stash of 'Top Deck' shandies, but I'll be sad all the same...

Closet teenager

Christ I am 35 in 2 weeks. What the feck is that all about? thirty.... five. It's a new box for starters. In any questionnaire, job application thingy.25 - 29? 30 - 34? and eek - 35 - 39!!! One day and suddenly - boom! You are a whole year older (wiser?) and well... I just don't feel it. Don't get me wrong, on days Sproglet runs circles round me, I have PMT and husband makes me contemplate 1st degree murder - I feel 156. But most of the time - I am still 17!! I am a sucker for a John Hughes movie, I love Dawson's creek, my music taste is firmly planted circa 1986 and I would have sleepovers if it wasn't illegal at my age - I am still a youth! Make-up excites me, I love boy chats and would spend half my life on the phone if only someone else would chat at length with me... I am a closet teenager at heart. Heck, I still get spots.

Do you remember Jackie magazine? I started reading it when I was 9 to collect (swoon)'Adam and the Ants' posters. It was meant for girls who had periods and wanted to know about french kissing and whether or not pedal pushers worked with tuck-a-boots or not but I aspired to all the problems on the 'Cathy and Claire' page and read it to feel older and and more mature - even though I had no idea what 'discharge' meant amongst other things. I moved on to Just 17, then mags in my Mum's hairdressing shop that had tantalising problem pages and excerpts of Jilly Cooper's 'Riders' to pour over. It was great to get an 'in' on subjects that were far removed from my suburban dull teenage existence in Belfast. I couldn't wait to escape my mundane life. The same boring pub every weekend. The same tedious rugby boys to have crushes on (or not as the case may be - I loved a boy called Gareth who never washed his hair and wore pink baseball boots - I called him, 'the artist' when actually he should have been called 'the wanker').

Point is - I wanted to get the hell outta there so bad. And now as I approach this number - a number that doesn't feel remotely like ME or anything to do with me - I crave the simplicity and ok, drama of a teenage life. Better than stewing about a job at Eastenders or a fucking mortgage offer eh? If only all my worries were getting a politics essay in on time, whether or not my teenage love was going to call me that evening or 'to take or not take' the pill... I kept diaries all my life - they are truly sad. And amazing. And sadly not so far removed from who I am now. My good friend Eleanor went to school with me. She had about as much interest in french as I had - so all we did was pass or throw notes to each other - and I got a sore neck from trying to oggle 'the artist' in the classroom behind. Eleanor secretly kept all these notes and recently gave them to me. And weirdly, I had some of her scribblings too. They made me laugh and cry. Laugh at how ridiculous and (shock horror) overly dramatic I was. Cry - because I was so full of potential and inspiration and niave ambitions. It would be years before I became the bitter old lemon that I am. Eleanor got pregnant at school. I was shocked - I didn't even know she was having sex - in fact she was the kind of girl I wasn't even sure knew how to have sex. Anyway she had a baby and did her A levels 2 days later. Passed with flying colours, went on to Uni, did a PHD etc. - is one of the most brilliant people I have ever met. She sweetly kept a letter I wrote to her(aged 17) when I learned she was expecting - I read it again - age 34, and oddly I would write the very same letter today.

Inwardly I am still that 17 year old - desperate to get amongst it and be challenged, succeed against all costs and make something of myself. I still am a sad old romantic at heart and would watch 'The Breakfast Club' until the cows came home. My favourite times are still with folk I knew when I was 17. I still get a thrill out of an illict cigarette (being a preachy non-smoker for 7 years). So as I approach such a ridiculous age - if anyone fancies a sleep-over, smoking their first joint and talking about which base to go to with the captain of the rugby team - give me nudge, I'm there in a heartbeat. And can I bring Madonna's 'True Blue album?'

Baby blues - pass the soapbox please

Forgive me in advance. But I had had a crappy Easter. I was putting on some make-up, waiting for the lunchtime news on Easter Monday and it was on TV. Yes, I caught a few minutes of 'Loose Women'. Normally this is akin to enduring a smear test - but their chit-chat topic of the day intrigued me. Terri Dwyer (actressy presenter type) was on plugging her new DIY style show - this was as dull as dishwater. But then the women moved on to the subject of how Terri apparently used to host Loose Women, but left when she had a baby. They asked the typical inane questions about her taking time to lose the baby weight etc and then they ventured into the territory of how she enjoyed motherhood. I expected the usual gush of how it had enriched her life, is the whole point of living blah blah blah - when she admitted she had struggled in the first few months and although she loved her son to death, she had found it hard to adjust to her new role and became quite depressed. She said it was a relief to go back to work; that she had struggled to breast feed and it had taken several months to get it established. She didn't automatically take to motherhood like a duck to water and felt bad because of it. Whilst she didn't have post natal depression, she definitely had the blues but was too ashamed to talk about it. Well, this chat forced me to stop applying my mascara and wave the wand around in joy. Not because I would wish any woman any kind of suffering - but because someone had actually opened up about her difficulties - even saying, and I quote 'I expected it to be all ribbons and bows and when it wasn't I felt like I had failed.'

A friend of mine had a baby just before Xmas and only recently admitted to me that whilst she didn't have depression - she cried for several weeks, completely in shock just how much her life had been taken over by her gorgeous wee one. She said she knew that being a Mother would change her life but she had been totally unprepared for the extent to which she lost her life and identity. I remember seeing her 18 days after she had sprogged and bless her - she was exhausted, looking pale and gaunt and barely able to hold a conversation. Now I know we all know how hard the first few months can be - that is a given - but I am interested in the expectations we all put upon ourselves; the image we all have of idyllic blissed-out motherhood and the disappointment we all feel when it isn't quite as we'd hope. Do we tell people? I don't know about you, but all but one midwife that visited me scared the bejessus out of me and I strived to please them the way a class swot would lick up to a teacher. I cried when husband went back to work and I was left alone with my wee mite. I loved him but oh my god, I missed my life! I remember going to the cinema when he was 10 days old and it felt as if a lifetime had passed since husband and I had taken the familiar 15 minute walk to the flicks. It was a hot humid day cooling slightly as evening approached and he held my sweaty hand and I yearned for life to be this simple again.

One midwife - a woman with twins, one of whom was disabled - admitted to me how she had struggled. How she demanded a section after fainting the first time she witnessed a 4th degree tear birth during her training. She seemed to be real and honest and didn't jolly me along impressing upon me what I should be doing to be a 'perfect' mother. I begged her to come back but my sproglet weighed so much that I had to be signed off for home visits. I shudder to think what would have happened without those visits - and yet the government are considering abolishing them! When a woman is at her most vulnerable, when she has a whole new world to cope with - the male orientated government would consider abandoning her??

I digress. It just got me thinking. I've had quite a few personal emails from friends I have sent the crummymummy blog details to - all saying that it is great to have something so honest to identify with. How many of us keep schtum when we are inwardly caving - determined to prove 'we can cope!' For fear of not being a 'good mother.' Husband often tells me I am not a natural mother - but I am a good one. Whatever this means. The way some folk can dive gracefully or whip up Ramsey style feasts or lick their toes - we all have different talents. Some of us adapt to Motherhood in an instant, instinctively knowing what to do and when to do it. It took me 7-8 weeks to get to grips with sproglet and feel like I was making progress. I had to get a train alone with him and the thought of the 2 and a half hour journey brought me out in a cold sweat and hot tears. Once I did it (sproglet slept and then stared at two pretty girls who got an hour before London) I felt like I had scaled a mountain! It gave me confidence and I went from there.

My moral is - don't suffer in silence, you'd be surprised how many of us are out there. And we get through it and live to write about the tale.

The worst thing in the world.....

The worst thing in the world happened this morning. I am shaking as a type. Excuse the drama but please note I have an extreme phobia about two things - birth and mice. Well vermin of any kind don't do it for me in truth. This morning - at oh 4:20 am I was woken. Not by a sound - that in itself would have been horrific. But by a feeling. A banging from my mattress that went 'gung' 'gung' 'gung'. As if something was coming out of my bed - Freddie Krugar like (if you remember the scene in Nightmare on Elm St where Freddie came actually out of a bed with a fetching sheet straining over his mutilated head). I waited. I am mad I thought. But no, something was banging in my bed. Maybe underneath it, maybe in it's drawers. But deffo in my bed. I woke husband. He was furious. Beyond enraged. He claimed I was making it up. I asked him to turn on the light and pull out the bed in proof. He cursed me and pushed the bed aside to reveal a smattering of droppings. I was not mad. There was indeed something rodent like making itself a brand new home in my knicker drawer. Shaking, I left the room. Impossible for me to even contemplate sharing my room let alone my bed with a small monster. Husband? He went back to bed. Helpful to a T. Me - shaking mess. Where has this beast come from?

Just after Xmas I had another visit from our furry friends. To me, this was the worst horror - returning from Xmas to discover a mouse had been in. I crawled around the floor - a super mouse sleuth - and investigated for droppings. There was a small hole next to the kitchen door - which thankfully had been closed so mousey had only been in one room - my son's. This distressed me most of all and I made husband go in and take the room apart - brandishing a baseball bat - in the hope he would catch our unwanted guest. No sign of the bastard. I went round every radiator - filled every small hole with wire wool and contented myself that house was mouse-proof. That night my cousin and his girlfriend came to stay. There was no evidence of any more mice visiting again. The following night I headed to bed but unable to sleep I got up and made my way to the bathroom - and something in the dark scuttled past my foot. I screamed louder than if I had been in labour - my cousin and his girlfriend came dashing out of the lounge (they were on the sofa bed) and I cowered inside the bathroom, unsure whether to ever come out again. Tentatively I opened the door and screamed at Cuz to put on the light. He thought there had been an intruder. Trembling, I told him what had happened and deduced the only place the wee bugger could have run into - was my open bedroom door. I dashed up the small flight of stairs to my room and clung to my cousin like he was a hero in an action film. He crept down the stairs trying to imagine the horror that had come before, when his girlfriend shouted 'What's that?' Lo and behold a tiny mouse (she actually thought it one of my son's toys)was crouching in the corner of a stair. My cousin who can see nothing without his lenses - swung at it with a bat but the mouse tore down the stairs. I sent my cousin after it - dressed only in his pants. He hunted and discovered the blighter had escaped under my door. I sent Cuz out said door into a shared hall - where he found a massive hole around a pipe. I was prepared. I had bought that stuff that foams out and fills holes - and cousin and his brave girlfriend filled anything resembling a hole to within an inch of its life. We deemed the place a mouse free zone.

Until now.

The pest control folk will be here at 10am. £125 plus VAT. Bargain. Don't think I will ever be able to sleep in that bed ever again.


Part 2:

So a burly chap called Rod with no hair, a goatee beard and specs that magnified his eyes to enormous peepers, arrived at 8:30am. I think I told him I loved him before he had even got up the stairs. I had to wake husband who was disgusted. I didn't care. Rod my saviour had arrived. With a name like 'Rod' he sounded safe as houses. It's one of the those names isn't it? Like 'Ken' or 'Ron'. Safe, reliable - in good hands. Rod set to work and turned my tidy bedroom upside down in a bid to catch my unwanted guest. I heard him pull out my knicker/tights/socks drawer and for a moment was a bit embarrassed that Rod would be rooting around my smalls. This mere blush deepened somewhat when I remembered that an old Xmas gift from my mate lay gathering dust at the back of the drawer: my rampant rabbit - who was more of a resting rabbit these days. Next to it is a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs given to me on my hen night - I wonder what a delightful visual Rod had of me when he made these discoveries. He thundered around and came out the door a sweaty mess. He had spied the unwanted guest.

He returned with 'glue boards' and wire wool and various hunter type equipment, but was dismayed when mousey had given him the slip and disappeared up, or below the chimney. Kindly he filled all the holes and left me wire mesh to stop mousey, Santa or even Mary bleedin' Poppins getting down my chimney! He didn't meet my eye when he apologised about having to take out my drawers from beneath my bed. I tried to laugh off him having touched my pants but we both knew what he had really seen.

Kind calm Rod left after we had a twenty minute discussion on mouse proofing a home -apparently I have been meticulous at this - and he was shocked that a blighter had got past my fortress style precautions. I set to tidying the flat on a mere 3 hours sleep. That and getting sproglet ready for his child minder - thank the lord for her today. The rest of the afternoon was spent discovering my laptop has stopped working (my good friend Lisa came over and lent me hers - what an angel) my front door lock breaking and checking on my paint job that was hurriedly done on Saturday after water gushed down my lounge wall, post monsoon style weather.

All in all a cracker of an Easter. Hope the Easter Bunny was a dann sight kinder to you. To quote that not-so-well known Irish pop band 'D:Ream' and Blair's political campaign mantra of '97: 'Things can only get better...'